A State of Mind
by steelneena
Summary: He slipped slowly into a melancholy daze- that half formed gauzy sleep,which captivates the mind,enthralls it,stimulates it with fragmented images,and catches of a musical turn and splotches of vibrant colour,and that dull half-light.Introspective on Art


The city lights were unrivaled. There was nothing quite like a summer evening in New York. He knew this like he knew the back of his own hand. She was a dark and mysterious lady at night, the City; a vision in rich black and bright blues, unique yellows, deep reds, dark purples, flashing greens. Ever changing, yet harmoniously constant.

His rooftop home was quite serene this night, he thought as a warm breeze ruffled his hair lazily. He stood beside the railing, palms flat against the cooling stone. He had removed the suit coat the moment he had gotten home, but his vest remained, even though his tie hung loosely around his neck. Still and silent, he breathed deeply. His view of Her was incomparable, almost intimate, like a tender caress to a shy lover.

On a street corner below, not so far from him, he heard a dreary sax sigh away. In his head, the piano was accompanying the lone player. It had been far too long since he had sat down to pursue the keys. Even though there was a piano at his fingertips, just down the stair, he could never bring himself to play. The same as he almost never painted originals any longer. There was too much of himself exposed then. Too much that came to the surface with the twinkle of the keys, or the smooth strokes of his brush.

It had been too long since he allowed himself to truly revel in his art.

Reluctantly, he turned from his lovely lady, New York City. His cufflinks came off first, then the tie and French tie pin. _Pink_ was his go to store; he simply couldn't find such quality items anywhere else.

It wasn't long before he had returned to the balcony, his easel and a blank canvas stretched out before him. It was starkly white against the velvet of the black sky. As his pastels stroked the canvas, he remembered the first time he'd seen Her. It was from afar, and the skyline had seemingly popped out of nowhere. He had been hitch-hiking his way - such a different life that he had led then. She had looked youthful and splendid, like a dream. He had been young and in love. In love with the city. He knew better now, that just as willing as She was to love, She could turn Her back oh so easily. But for some reason, She just couldn't give him up. She'd always been so good to him. She always forgave him. New York was never just a city, but a state of mind.

The canvas was black now, with the first hints of light emanating against the background. He'd long lost that state of mind. He'd fallen in love with Her all over again. The pastel piece made Her shine like She was young as the day She was born into the cold steel world. Glossy and mysterious in the slinky black gown of night, Her jewels were the lights of the city that never slept.

As he put down the nub of pastel, He breathed deeply. The lazy energy of the city was seeping into his soul, revitalizing him. _Starstruck, Cheap Jack's, JJ's Hats. Maialino, Picholine_, and all the cafés that he would discover along the way, half hidden in a little corner, just waiting for him to enter. The people watching. Just to sit down on a stone step - any step - or a bench and watch. The people filing by, as he laughed to himself. Seeing life as it happened, living day to day in a vision.

It was the dreamer side of him. The side that had begun as the starving artist. The side that still yearned for that long lost innocence, the innocence that he had entered the city with. The innocence that the city took from him. If it were any other moment, he wouldn't ask for it back, but now…

There had once been a little apartment, on the Lower East Side. Even then, nearly a decade ago now, it had been a slumming district. And in one tiny corner of that area, had been that studio apartment, almost as empty as if no one lived there. A mattress, and sheets; a comforter, and one pillow. A simple studio lamp. An easel, and canvas and paints, pastels, pencils, paper. He had lived there alone, nearly two years. He'd gotten as close to the roof as he could. The top of the world. And at night, he would sit on his little balcony and look out at it all. His world, he imagined.

In those days he had worked by night, and sold by day in Central Park. His original pieces had brought in a meager sum from the lackadaisical tourists, but he had lived off of it. There were no suits or ties back then, but that hadn't stopped him from looking. And no fancy restaurants either. He'd lived in the cafés, sipping on coffee, iced in the summer, and chai tea, as hot as he could get it, in the winter. He remembered those two freezing winters. The heat in his building was pathetic, but he had survived. Somehow. The summers had always been easier. Jazz festivals in the park, the occasional ticket to the latest concert bought half price on a shady corner street.

It had been a drifting kind of life. Somedays, he would sneak onto the college campuses and just listen to lectures on art, history, literature, economics. He had always been bright, but the life of a real student hadn't been for him. His charm could get him places that no one back home had ever imagined. They had always discredited the city. It was a hard cold place. They always said he wouldn't make it on his art alone. He wouldn't have two coins to rub together in his pocket, much less enough to pay taxes and bills.

Well, he had figured, the landlord paid the bills, and he paid the rent. And without a PO box, there was no one to send the tax forms to. He smirked to himself. He was constantly thanking the powers that be that he was good enough to get past the feds. That they hadn't figured out about his longer occurring tax evasion.

He had just been some name to a face. Nothing more. The name and it's up keep became his life. And it had consumed him. What had become of that dreamer? The starving artist, living only through and for his creations. The innocent. Greed killed him. Greed left only the name behind, and the face and the life behind him, those days and nights spent living from one day to the next, not knowing how much longer it would all last…they disappeared. It was as if the wind had swept in one night and simply blown them away.

He sat on a lounge chair, swilling the remnants of his Merlot, watching the night pass him by, his newest creation off-set by the gradual rise of the sun. Reminiscing. Falling back into the thoughts and the memories that haunted him. A new day. Back to the routine. Back to the life that his memories had allowed him to bypass in the night. Even the memories that held him captive. He sighed heavily as he lightly set the glass down on the table.

He'd be damned if he was going into work that day. It was the last thought that he consciously had as he slipped slowly into a melancholy daze - that half formed gauzy sleep, which captivates the mind, enthralls it, stimulates it with fragmented images, and catches of a musical turn and splotches of vibrant colour, and that dull half-light, the kind that takes on a full form in the mind's eye. The kind that one day, transfers to canvas. The spider webbed threads of a daydream floating away on the listless breeze of a morning in New York City.

He sleeps on, sprawled on the chaise, head lolled to the side, chocolate locks of hair fallen into his eyes. There is still chalk on his fingers from the night before, and the canvas still sits on the easel. When he wakes up later, he won't be able to remember the catches of the song, or the flashes of colour. When he wakes up later, he won't care about a dreamer who once stayed up late just to try and find the stars amongst all the city lights. When he wakes up later, he won't think about an artist who refused to be told not to dream. Who was told that they would simply shatter into oblivion. When he wakes up later, nothing will be different.

The pastels will sit forgotten next to the easel, and the memory of the saxophone's soft sighs will be drowned out by the monotone of cars and people, going and doing. And he will join them in their endless stream, while on a rooftop somewhere in the Lower East Side, a dreamer looks out at the lights, just past two in the morning, with a brush in hand, eyes glossy reflections of an ideal vision.

A State of Mind.


End file.
